A vilet on the meadow grew,That no one saw, that no one knew,It was a modest flower.A shepherdess passd by that wayLight-footed, pretty and so gay;That way she came,Softly warbling forth her lay. GoetheThe Violet. Frederick Ricords trans.

We are violets blue, For our sweetness foundCareless in the mossy shades, Looking on the ground.Loves droppd eyelids and a kiss,Such our breath and blueness is. Leigh HuntSongs and Chorus of the Flowers. Violets.

The violets whisper from the shadeWhich their own leaves have made:Men scent our fragrance on the air,Yet take no heedOf humble lessons we would read. Christina G. RossettiConsider the Lilies of the Field. L. 13.

A humble flower long time I pined Upon the solitary plain,And trembled at the angry wind, And shrunk before the bitter rain.And oh! twas in a blessed hour A passing wanderer chanced to see,And, pitying the lonely flower, To stoop and gather me. ThackeraySong of the Violet.

You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known,Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own What are you when the rose is blown? Sir Henry WottonTo his Mistress the Queen of Bohemia.